The day of departure was finally here. We had travelled from Santa Ana, California, to the Texas border.
It was 1938 and my Aunt Betty, one of her teenage daughters, my brother Glen, my two younger sisters, Sharon and Edith, and I, ranging in age from four to eight, all travelled from the border to Mexico City by bus.
We finally arrived. Before leaving California, my aunt had heard many stories from well-meaning people warning her to be careful because you could easily be deceived. She was ready. This wasn't going to happen to her. In front of the bus terminal, she flagged down a taxi, showed him a piece of paper with the hotel name and address where we were to go. They argued, she in English and he in Spanish. They reached an agreement. The ride took close to an hour. We arrived and got out. She paid the driver and was very pleased with the 'fare'. The next morning my brother, Glen, and I got up very early. We were too excited to sleep any longer. We walked out of the hotel, went to the corner and turned left. Lo and behold, what was that in front of us across the street? It was the bus terminal at which we had arrived the night before! So much for the bargain!
